


House Calls

by TAFKAB



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Not So Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Cuddling, Sleepwalking, egregious failure to include actual smut, platonic McKirk, pointless shippiness, various injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 21:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9404027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: Dr. McCoy hasn't been prone to walking in his sleep since he was a child, not unless he's subconsciously concerned about his favorite patients.  Spock is startled by the after-hours house calls... until he discovers he likes them.





	

Jim has just ventured the final stage of the T’Nea gambit, and Spock is considering how best to extricate his bishop from the impending trap, when the door abruptly whisks open and McCoy stands there, his expression strangely blank. 

“Bones, come on in,” Kirk says cordially, but McCoy doesn’t answer; he just walks in and goes past the partition, straight into Kirk’s sleeping quarters. Spock blinks; the doctor is wearing only his black undershirt and boxers, a decidedly unusual choice for McCoy, who’s always seemed exceedingly modest for a human.

“Shit. Hang on for just a few minutes, Spock. I’m gonna have to settle him before we can finish the game.” Kirk gets up and follows, baffling Spock by hastily kicking off his boots and peeling off his shirts before lying down. 

McCoy lies down behind him and settles in, putting his hand at Jim’s throat as if feeling for his pulse, running his hand carefully over Jim’s ribcage and the still-fresh, still-pink scar tissue there. He drapes one arm over Kirk’s waist and presses his hand to Kirk’s chest, heaving a huge sigh. He goes still and they lie there together for a time. Kirk’s eyes are open, but he doesn’t speak, lying perfectly motionless. 

Spock sits equally still, unsure whether he should leave or remain—only Kirk’s directive that he is to hang on prevents him from departing immediately. 

About ten minutes later Kirk stirs and carefully gets up. “Just going to take a leak, Bones, it’s fine. I’ll be back in a little while,” he murmurs, then pads out in his sock feet to rejoin Spock.

“Sleepwalking,” he explains quietly. “His polysomnography results indicate it’s anxiety-related, but he’s never responded to relaxation therapy or medications. He usually shows up after I’ve had a close call. I think he’s dreaming about coming to check on me.” He tilts Spock a sheepish, appealing grin. “Usually I let him stay. He gets agitated if I wake him up, and if I send him off to his own bed, he comes back as soon as he falls asleep again.”

Spock raises a brow. “His concern for your welfare is impressive,” he admits. Impressive is a good, neutral word to describe the display of mutual tenderness he’s just witnessed, one that makes him feel decidedly uncomfortable for reasons that are, perhaps, best left unexamined. 

Kirk scans the board, evaluating Spock’s latest move, pursing his lips.

Spock can’t fault McCoy’s concern. Kirk stepped in the path of a projectile weapon this afternoon on Reina IV and his left lung was perforated, leaving him gasping with a sucking chest wound, his blood bubbling on the surface of his skin in a most disturbing manner. 

Spock was able to beam the captain directly up after the assailant was subdued. Fortunately the surgery was not complicated and had gone well, leaving Kirk feeling energetic enough to ask Spock to come and distract him by playing chess since he couldn’t resume his duties until he got medical clearance, but clearly McCoy was not satisfied. 

Spock leaves when the game is finished, aware that Jim is already headed in to lie down with McCoy. They will awaken together in the morning.

Given Jim’s attitude of relaxed acceptance regarding the situation, Spock guesses it is not a particularly unusual occurrence.

*****

Over the next year and a half, Spock witnesses McCoy going to Kirk’s quarters twice more in the same manner. Since he is now aware of the phenomenon, he watches for it. It is easy to tell when McCoy’s somnambulism is active; his face is blank of all expression, his eyes are glassy, and usually his state of undress indicates he has prepared for bed. He has only a few meters to travel to move between his own quarters and Kirk’s, so the transit is made quickly, but Spock knows to watch for the event immediately after Kirk has been injured and released from sickbay.

He ensures McCoy arrives at his destination without interference.

*****

When he hears his door swish open, Spock is lying in his own quarters, recovering from a concussion he received when a primitive tribesman flung a rather large rock at the landing party. Unfortunately it struck Spock’s head and knocked him unconscious, causing a hairline fracture of his skull.

Only two men aboard the Enterprise could override Spock’s lock and no one answers his verbal inquiry; instead, he sees motion at the entry to his sleeping area: a familiar silhouette. Spock recognizes the doctor without more than mild surprise.

McCoy comes to him, running a very gentle hand over the injured area, assessing it, then casually climbs into the bed and settles behind Spock. His hand settles over Spock’s heart and he sighs, then falls still. His chest is bare; he wears only tight black shorts. 

Spock lies there, uncertain, feeling the soft rise and fall of McCoy’s respiration behind him. He remembers Kirk explaining how McCoy became agitated if awoken. He knows it is generally considered unwise to rouse a sleepwalker. He remembers Kirk explaining that McCoy would return even if ejected.

He does not attempt to remove McCoy from his bed. Instead he lies quietly, composing his mind and erecting additional mental shielding to protect both his privacy and Leonard’s from the casual skin-to-skin contact. It would, perhaps, have been wise if he had worn pajamas tonight instead of stripping to his own undershorts before bed. Perhaps the next time he is injured it would be prudent to do so.

Spock lies quietly and thinks about what is happening to him.

Spock has not slept with another person in his bed since his separation from Nyota, and he is grateful that this incident has occurred now, not during their tumultuous time together. She would not have welcomed McCoy’s intrusion regardless of how or when it was explained to her. 

It is not unpleasant to have another warm body lying next to his. In fact, he has missed it. He underwent a period of adjustment after Nyota left during which he did not sleep well without her presence in his bed. 

Aside from his episodes of somnambulism McCoy is not a very mobile sleeper; he has lain perfectly still for over an hour since he joined Spock. He does not clutch Spock too tightly. His warmth against Spock’s skin is soothing. 

When McCoy wakes in the morning, the situation will doubtless turn extremely awkward.

Spock decides he will feign sleep and give the doctor an opportunity to escape believing his presence has gone undetected. 

As far as he is able to determine, his ruse is successful.

*****

A handful of weeks later, Mr. Scott is badly burned in an engineering accident, and in its aftermath Spock monitors McCoy’s movements with care. The doctor does not leave his quarters that night. The same is true when others suffer injury—he does not go to Sulu, nor to Chekov, nor even to Chapel after she breaks her leg during a turbulent altercation with a Romulan bird of prey. 

Spock awaits his next inevitable injury both with interest and with reluctance to suffer in order to have his curiosity satisfied. It occurs a month or more after Scott is burned: Spock is assisting with repairs to a panel when a large insect comes scuttling out of the shadowed recesses of its interior and the burly ensign holding it up for access yelps as the insect scuttles up his pants-leg. He drops the console on Spock’s hand, resulting in significant pain for Spock and horrible mortification for the crewman.

McCoy snaps and snarls as he works, fussing both at Spock and the hapless ensign, who has suffered a painful sting in an indelicate area, somewhat justifying the extremity of his reaction. 

McCoy’s hands are gentle, though, as he treats Spock. He gives Spock a sedative and a powerful opiate to deaden the pain, then sets the broken bones very carefully, including a complicated compound fracture of the middle phalanx in Spock’s index finger. When he has finished regenerating the damaged tissue, he strokes his fingertips along the mended digits as if he does not trust in the display on his instrument panel, seeking some confirmation of wellness only his sense of touch and his innate instinct for healing can give him. 

Spock would question such an illogical impulse, except that he is discovering that though he does not understand, McCoy’s careful caress is beneficial in ways that the chemical medications were not. McCoy’s touch calms his jangling tension and reassures him all is well. 

“Does that hurt? No? Good.”

Spock watches without complaint, holding his breath as McCoy handles his fingers, testing their ability to flex and bend. He forces his features to remain impassive throughout the interlude. Though he still cannot feel a great deal of physical sensation from the intimate contact, it is most certainly enough to inspire both an emotional and a physiological response. Fortunately, Spock is capable of masking them.

“Next time get a hydraulic jack to hold up the load when someone’s underneath it,” McCoy snaps at the red-faced, miserable ensign. He sets Spock’s hand carefully down and moves to the next bed over. Ensign Herrels does not receive such tender words—or caresses—in the medicating of his own embarrassing injury. “I oughtta leave this bite to teach you a lesson.” McCoy gives the ensign an antihistamine injection and administers a topical analgesic anyway, grumbling furiously before sending the man on his way.

Spock hypothesizes that his well-being has come to be a matter of significant concern to the doctor and calculates odds on a theory that he will receive a nocturnal visit. His life was not endangered; it will be interesting to see if a lesser injury will provoke the same protective response.

He accepts his half-day off with less argument than usual and retreats to his quarters, attempting to compose his mind to serenity, aware that he is not succeeding in the attempt. He cannot purge the sense of anticipation that keeps his heart rate and respiration slightly elevated throughout the afternoon. Rather than meditating, he contemplates what he will elect to wear when he retires. 

Eventually Spock determines his usual choice of sleeping attire is logical given the 88.6% chance he has calculated that McCoy will not visit due to the non-life-threatening nature of Spock’s injury. 

It seems he has underestimated the doctor’s concern for his health. His chronometer registers approximately 23:17 hours when he hears the exterior door open and spots McCoy’s silhouette as he enters. 

He lets McCoy inspect his hand, which is no longer even slightly desensitized. Spock sinks his teeth in his lower lip and closes his eyes. McCoy’s fingertips are slightly roughened by the demands of his vocation. He feels every square centimeter of Spock’s hand—his fingers, his palm. He traces all the bones with great care. Spock hears his own breath rasping harshly in his throat; he trembles under the careful examination. 

It is not, after all, as if such things are considered erotic by human standards. McCoy’s examination is doubtless intended to be clinical. Even if erotic stimulation were McCoy’s intent, there is the complicating factor of his somnambulism; McCoy is incapable of providing informed consent for mutual intimacy, and there is no prior established relationship from which consent may be inferred.

Spock draws a deep breath and steels himself to endure until the examination ends. 

McCoy withdraws his hands at last; he makes no expression, but his mind radiates contentment. He is satisfied with the outcome, and he climbs into Spock’s bed without hesitation, reaching for Spock, his hands fretful until Spock lies down and lets himself be found. Then McCoy wraps him up neatly, with a minimum of fuss—this time lacing their fingers together in a way that makes Spock’s breath grow short all over again. 

Spock allows McCoy to escape again in the morning, lying very quiet and still while the doctor flees.

It happens again—several times, sometimes for near fatalities, other times for minor problems—once even after they discover Spock has a vitamin deficiency that reveals the replicators haven’t been synthesizing his food with all the trace nutrients a Vulcan requires, a problem McCoy apparently feels responsible for. 

By the tenth time Spock looks forward to McCoy’s arrival and welcomes the doctor with open arms. McCoy no longer curls motionless against Spock’s back all night; by morning they lie chest to chest, their arms and legs entangled. Spock can always feel McCoy’s contentment as he sleeps: a comfort and happiness that is so pure it is almost incomprehensible when compared to McCoy’s harassed, irritable demeanor by day: an absolute harmonious sense of assurance that all is well and as it should be. 

Sometimes Spock senses even more than that. Several times (almost always coinciding with minor problems, not the life-threatening accidents or attacks that leave Spock seriously weakened), McCoy has become aroused while he slept, sometimes even shifting to press himself against Spock in a slow, gentle rhythm that concludes with an eventual gasp and sigh. 

Spock is always absolutely still and does nothing to encourage or return the contact; it is a scrupulous refusal to dishonor the doctor—of a sort. Though he is keenly aware of McCoy’s pleasure, he will not allow himself to indulge physical participation in an act of sexsomnia, one McCoy would surely regret upon waking.

McCoy does not know how to shield his thoughts, and his feeling of fond, secure contentment is heightened during these interludes, blending with sexual feeling to become perfect bliss. 

Spock wonders if sexual arousal occurs while McCoy is in Kirk’s bed, but Kirk cannot touch McCoy’s mind and Spock cannot muster the disrespect to ask about purely physical responses that are none of his affair. 

Every night that McCoy joins him, Spock lies awake for a very long time pondering what he should do, then allows McCoy to leave in the morning as if his presence has never been noticed.

They fall into a bad set of encounters along the neutral zone; Romulans seem set on invading and claiming the resources of a small planet not far on the Federation side. Skirmishes leave numerous crew as walking wounded, but nobody can afford to go off duty while the battles continue—new encounters happen every couple of hours until everyone is ragged and on edge.

The shields fail, and a few saboteurs beam aboard. Spock leads a party to engage them in hand-to hand combat, and is shot while shoving Sulu aside from a disruptor grenade as it discharges.

Both the shot and the grenade damage his body.

He staggers toward sickbay to be tended and collapses halfway to the biobed. “If you’d been facing the other direction you wouldn’t have made it here,” McCoy snaps, hustling him into surgery. Spock can feel the doctor’s panic through the palms of his hands, which drip green onto the carpet.

McCoy operates, replacing the damaged tissue, which includes the skin from his left side, most of several ribs, and part of a lung.

After he has been operated on, he waits until McCoy has gone into surgery with the next patient and makes his escape. He returns to the bridge to support Kirk, who’s ragged and wild-eyed from lack of sleep. Together they figure out how to fake transmissions from an incoming rescue fleet and manage to scare the Romulans back across the border. Then he returns to sickbay and lies down on a biobed, hoping to forestall McCoy’s inevitable fury at his refusal to rest until the ship was safe. M’Benga tells him McCoy has already gone to bed, sputtering and swearing, livid with rage— saying he refused even to check on Spock since he obviously didn’t care if he lived or died.

Spock sighs and lies where he is, composing futile phrases he will say to the doctor whenever they next meet.

Kirk turns up an hour and a half later, hollow-eyed and sluggish. 

“Can you walk? Good.” He nods briskly at Spock. “I need him to get to his quarters. To his bed,” he tells M’Benga. “Tape monitors to him or something so you can keep an eye on how he’s doing. McCoy’s walking in his sleep again—he’s raiding the whole ship looking for Spock.”

M’Benga reluctantly agrees, attaching electrodes and scanners to Spock’s skin until he feels like he’s been attacked by the voracious suckers of a giant tentacle beast. 

Kirk supports Spock through the corridor, overriding the turbolift with an emergency code so it will come right away. “He’s going through every cabin in the saucer section looking for you. He didn’t find you home, so he came to search my room next, then Scotty’s. He’s probably finished invading the rest of the bridge crew by now. I tried to wake him up but he got violent. Wouldn’t stop hunting.”

They find McCoy on the junior officers’ level; luckily, they manage to locate him on the way out of Pavel’s room before he can burst into Nyota’s quarters and scare her to death.

The minute Spock touches McCoy, the doctor stops searching, turns, and runs his hands anxiously over Spock’s body. All over. It’s somewhat embarrassing attempting to guide the doctor through the halls while McCoy is determined to verify the intact surface of every square inch of the new skin he synthesized and applied to Spock earlier in the day. 

Kirk helps Spock and McCoy to bed in Spock’s quarters and extinguishes the light without saying much before leaving. McCoy wraps Spock up tenderly and does not move for hours.

When morning comes, Spock feels McCoy stir; the doctor’s consternation explodes through his mind with an intensity that surpasses panic. Even if Spock were not awake, this would awaken him instantly. He is tired of pretending.

“Calm yourself, doctor. I am aware of your sleepwalking habit. You were somnambulant when you arrived, and I do not hold you responsible for your involuntary relocation.” Spock doesn’t tell McCoy about the extent of his depredations. He’s still weak, still tired—but he feels warm and peaceful in McCoy’s arms.

That is, he does until McCoy snatches his hands away from Spock so fast he cracks his elbow into the adjacent wall and ends up curled into a ball, rocking back and forth and cursing, involuntary tears in his eyes. Spock sits up fast to examine him and make sure he’s uninjured. He appears to have compressed his ulnar nerve in the place where it lies exposed by the cubital tunnel.

Spock tells him as much and McCoy merely snarls miserably at him, finally uncurling when the pain begins to recede.

“Sorry for the intrusion.” His face is red and he doesn’t meet Spock’s eyes. “You shouldn’t even be out of sickbay. …Have you got something I can wear so I can get the hell out of here?”

“Of course.”

Spock lends McCoy a bathrobe and McCoy makes a hasty, humiliated escape before Spock can tell the doctor that he is always moved by McCoy’s involuntary expressions of concern. 

*****

It doesn’t happen again for a long time; Enterprise winds up stuck in a rut of routine diplomatic assignments, and the worst hazard aboard ship is excessive boredom.

Spock thinks often of McCoy and would not be averse to developing a closer acquaintance, but McCoy avoids him diligently except in the pursuit of vital duty. Spock finds this disappointing; it indicates McCoy’s concern is based in friendship alone, or perhaps merely in a sense of obligation to his job.

He decides to consult with Kirk. It is embarrassing to confess that the phenomenon has occurred to him so frequently, but Kirk seems to take that easily in stride. Certain specifics, however, prove more intriguing to his mind.

“He came after you hurt your hand?” Kirk sits back in his chair, giving Spock a shrewd look. “No, I wouldn’t say that’s his subconscious sense of duty.” Kirk rotates his chair thoughtfully, swiveling back and forth. “Not at all. He’s never come to me for anything short of a near death incident.”

Spock feels his face and ears flush, and Kirk smiles a little, observing it. 

“Dr. McCoy was excessively embarrassed on awakening from the most recent occasion of his sleepwalking to my quarters,” Spock reports concisely, factually accurate without revealing the duration of any of McCoy’s stays. “He has avoided me whenever possible in the weeks since.”

“Is that a desirable outcome for you?” Kirk tiptoes around more emotionally charged phrases, a fact for which Spock is grateful. It allows him to resort to honesty with less embarrassment.

“No,” he says steadily. “It is not.”

Kirk nods calmly. “Bones is touchy sometimes and stubborn as hell all the time. You’ll need to make it clear you aren’t upset with him.”

“I attempted to do so at the time.”

Kirk nodded, sympathetic. “You’ll have to do it again. And don’t be vague. And let him know what to expect as a reaction from you if it happens again.” He chuckled ruefully. “I’m not saying that’ll be easy, Spock. He won’t be inclined to let you say much.”

“I am aware.” Spock gazed at his knees for a moment, considering a somewhat audacious idea. “Perhaps the next time I am injured I will ask that he attend me in my quarters to check on me before he sleeps and request him to stay the night.”

Kirk blinks at him for a moment, then erupts into helpless peals of laughter. “You’re very direct, Spock.”

“I see no logic in the alternative.” Indeed, now that he has formulated a plan, Spock is pleased with it. Even if his invitation is unwelcome, it is possible the foregoing medical visit will satisfy McCoy’s subconscious need to check up on him and the somnambulatory event will be thwarted, thus sparing McCoy further humiliation. 

Flawlessly logical. 

“What will you say if he inquires why you have invited him to stay?” Kirk’s eyes sparkle at Spock, his expression one Spock recognizes as mischievous and pleased. “Will you claim it is merely to spare him the trouble of leaving and coming back?”

Spock tilts his head at Kirk, evaluating whether it is a rhetorical question. “ I think not,” he says, remaining perfectly serene.

Kirk beams on him like a schoolmistress on a recalcitrant pupil who’s just made a major breakthrough.

“The humiliation of going through the hall in his skivvies?”

“That is only a small portion of my motive.” Spock remains bland.

“The embarrassment of waking up where he isn’t wanted?”

“In my perception, such a thing has yet to happen between the doctor and myself.” McCoy might beg to differ, of course, but Spock was not responsible for conclusions the human jumped to on grounds of insufficient supporting data.

Kirk grins at him, as McCoy might claim, like an opossum, though the doctor would doubtless omit the preliminary “o” and alter the definite article to a form more suitable to precede a consonant.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Spock… but I can’t help but wonder how to get you a sufficiently frightening injury as quickly as possible.” Kirk sat back, thoughtful. “You might have to invite him over without one.”

Spock considers that. He judges it more likely he can persuade Leonard to stay if the doctor has a compelling reason for his presence in Spock’s quarters when the request for his company in bed occurs.

“Perhaps I will invite him over on some pretext before making my request.”

“You’ll have to catch him first.”

Spock nods, unperturbed. “I will endeavor to do so.”

It turns out Spock doesn't have to do anything of the sort. The next day Kirk schedules him into a last-minute meeting with Sulu during breakfast, one regarding their upcoming survey of gravitational anomalies. Kirk schedules Spock another meeting with Scotty during the evening meal regarding an engine tune-up preparatory for the same expedition. After Spock finally manages to eat and returns to his quarters to prepare for bed, he is startled to find McCoy, wide awake, preparing to override the lock on Spock’s door and let himself in. 

“You weren’t in the mess at breakfast or at dinner.” McCoy’s voice is sharp, accusing. “Jim and I decided you must not be feeling well.”

The captain’s machinations were well-intended, Spock was certain, but he is reluctant to capitalize upon them. He would prefer not to begin from a place of dishonesty, even if the deception was not his own.

“I have been coordinating an engine tune-up preparatory to our survey of the Relextian system,” Spock explains, watching McCoy relax. He is certain he can hear Kirk making an exasperated noise from concealment behind the junction slightly down the hall.

“You won’t do anyone any good if you starve yourself!” McCoy’s voice is tart. “Between Jim gorging himself into a stupor on junk food and you trying to live on imagination and tap water, it’s a wonder anyone at all’s fit to command this vessel!”

Faced with the reality of McCoy, his many defensive mechanisms all firmly deployed despite his obvious altruistic intent in inquiring after Spock’s health, Spock finds himself unable to proceed. This is a far cry from the warm, gentle man who slips into bed with him at night. This is a porcupine with barbed quills held at the ready, prepared to lash out and leave Spock with a plethora of smarting wounds. That it is all a defensive front does not reduce the price of an attempt to breach the defenses-- or increase the meager chances of success. 

Spock has learned the extensive layers of defensive behavior are meant to protect McCoy from Spock and are not an indication of dislike. However, he does not know how to prove himself worthy so McCoy will lower them.

“I have just come from the ship’s mess, doctor, where I have procured adequate nourishment.” He leaves the customary snap out of his words. “Now I seek to ensure I obtain adequate rest, as well.” 

He intends that as an assurance that he is following McCoy’s frequently-delivered advice to sleep more, but it doesn’t seem to work. McCoy’s jaw tightens and he lifts his chin as if he’s contemplating whether it’s an offer to fight. Maybe he thinks Spock’s making a veiled accusation that McCoy’s occasional visits keep him from sleeping (as they do, though he does not begrudge it).

For once Spock is not in the mood for a battle of words and wit. He waits while McCoy overcomes his desire to say something scathing; fortunately, Spock has given him insufficient provocation. McCoy settles for “See that you do,” as if he were Spock’s commanding officer, then stalks off.

Jim doesn’t stop him; he emerges from hiding and gives Spock an exasperated glare. 

“Given the doctor’s mood, the chances of a successful conclusion to engaging him in the conversation we discussed were prohibitively low,” Spock tells Jim. “I calculated a probability of approximately 1.4%, with a margin of error of plus or minus five percent. In addition, the odds in favor of significant collateral damage to the existing relationship were overwhelming: approximately 94.867%. I calculated the margin of error for those odds was significantly lower; perhaps 0.05%.”

“Human responses aren’t that easily predictable.” Despite his optimistic words, Jim wilts; he obviously knows Spock’s right. “If you’re waiting for the odds to turn in your favor, Mr. Spock, I’m concerned you won’t ever get the opportunity you’re looking for.”

“That possibility is indeed statistically significant.”

*****

After his failure to approach McCoy, Spock manages to remain healthy for what should have been a gratifyingly lengthy period. The extra distance between them slowly evaporates, returning the relationship to its normal state of armed camp. Spock isn’t quite satisfied with the status quo, but he has no idea how to change it for the better, and it is preferable to avoidance.

Then disaster happens-- and on his watch, too. Their away team is working to collect samples of a rare mineral ore when Klingons appear out of nowhere. Two security guards go down at once, and McCoy lunges for them. A Klingon advances, lashing out with one iron-shod boot, catching McCoy in the ribs. He goes down, clutching his side, and takes another kick to the temple on the way down.

The rest of the battle is a little hazy, but when time slows back down to its normal pace again, Spock is surrounded by unmoving Klingons and most of the Enterprise landing party are still upright. Chekov blinks at Spock cautiously. 

“Shall I call for beam up, commander?”

Spock takes his communicator. “Mr Scott, beam the doctor and the others directly to sickbay, then retrieve the rest of us.”

His orders are carried out to the letter, and he realizes a moment too late that the logical choice would have been to have himself beamed to the sickbay as well, as he is going to go there at once anyway.

It takes him a few minutes, and by then McCoy is already being competently treated. Chapel sponges a trickle of blood off his head; the biobed readings indicate he is stable. M’Benga is at work on the security men, whose injuries are more serious. 

“Broken ribs, a mild concussion. I’ve sedated him because he was going to get up and help treat Crewman Robinson despite his own injuries,” Chapel tells Spock. “He’ll be fine as soon as Dr. M’Benga has a few minutes to mend his ribs.”

“Thank you, nurse.” Spock looks down on McCoy, who appears strangely vulnerable lying on the biobed in only his uniform trousers and boots. The sickbay staff haven’t yet had time to clothe him in a medical coverall. 

Spock covers McCoy with a thermal sheet before he departs, then returns to the bridge to assist the captain in seeking the source of the Klingon patrol they found planetside, but before he arrives a plan begins to crystallize in his head. 

The Klingon ship is hiding behind a nearby moon, concealed by magnetic anomalies. Fortunately, after a time of posturing and threats, it seems the exchange of hostilities planetside will not devolve into further violence. Spock is glad to be in warp, well away from the encounter, by the time his shift ends. He is free to go, as his plan requires.

He calls sickbay, telling M’Benga he will take McCoy his evening meal, and receives a list of recommended foods to choose from. He loads a tray with enough dinner for both himself and the doctor, then goes to McCoy’s quarters with it. 

His errand is kind, logical, and necessary. McCoy is supposed to confine himself to bed rest and is not supposed to go to the commissary. Nevertheless, Spock experiences misgivings when he stands before the doctor’s door.

“Come.” McCoy sounds snappish, and Spock sighs internally. Moments when McCoy isn’t irritable are a rarity, and convalescence has always been a particularly unpleasant time to associate with him.

“I have brought you a meal,” Spock says, and enters smoothly with the tray held before him, like a priest bringing a peace offering to a particularly ill-tempered and unforgiving deity. 

McCoy lifts up on his elbows, grimacing at the twinge in his recently-mended ribs. “Well, bring it in here.” The note of bluster reassures Spock; it sounds false, as though McCoy is attempting to reassure himself of his crankiness rather than actually feeling anger at Spock. 

Spock carries him the tray and pulls over an end-table to perch it on. They sit quietly together as they eat, a pleasant experience. Spock catches himself watching McCoy chew and swallow, the fork moving between his plate and his mouth steadily.

McCoy sighs when he finishes, weary. The process of regenerating bone is a taxing one, and his head injury also mandates a period of quiet and rest. “Thanks, Spock,” he says, tossing his napkin onto his plate. “I was pretty hungry.”

“You should rest.” Spock gathers various dishes and implements and replaces them on the tray. He takes it into the anteroom and sets it on McCoy’s desk. Obviously expecting Spock to leave, McCoy lies back down, yawning.

Spock is not inclined to lie to himself, and therefore does not deny the increased speed of his heartbeat as he kicks off his boots and removes his shirt and pants, leaving himself in his underthings. He returns to the bedroom.

McCoy’s eyes open open wide. “What the hell…?”

“I intend to stay with you tonight, just as you stay with me whenever I have been injured. I have found your presence salubrious and comforting.” Spock is aware that he sounds painfully stiff and self-conscious, but he knows no other way to be. 

“Are you out of your Vulcan mind?” McCoy sputters. 

“Quite the opposite.” Remembering the human adage that he who hesitates is lost, Spock does not allow himself to do so. He slides in behind McCoy and draws the coverlet over them both. 

“Damn it, Spock, if this is your way of punishing me for sleepwalking in on you--”

“It is not intended to be a punishment. I do not wish for it to be an unpleasant experience.” Spock proceeds to the next step, encouraged that McCoy has not told him bluntly to ‘get the fuck out.’ He runs his hand over McCoy’s mended ribs slowly, verifying they are whole. He touches his fingertips to McCoy’s temple where the boot bruised him. He can hear the echo of McCoy’s thoughts through the touch-- bright panic, confusion, furtive desire. 

“You always touch me thus,” he says, narrowly deflecting McCoy’s next salvo of defensive words. “I believe you seek to ensure I have been fully healed. I do not know if I perceive the same evidence as you would, but it is comforting to me-- both as the recipient and as the caretaker.”

McCoy clears his throat. “Yeah, well, when I’m asleep I can hardly be expected to--”

“I have no expectations,” Spock assures him. “Not of a sleeping man.” 

McCoy hears the qualification-- are there expectations of him this time, since they are both awake?-- and inhales sharply. Spock takes the opportunity to return his hand to McCoy’s waist, sliding it around until his palm rests over McCoy’s chest. “You often conclude your examination by placing your palm over my heart,” he says quietly. “It is a comforting sensation.”

He can feel McCoy’s heart beating faster, but does not comment on it. McCoy’s neck is right in front of his nose; a whorl of fine hairs is visible below the fringe of his haircut. Spock considers following the pattern with his tongue and settles for trailing his lips against McCoy’s skin instead.

The doctor bleats softly with surprise and jumps in his arms, badly startled. 

“I would like very much to sleep in your arms regularly, Leonard.” Spock commits to his confession. “I find it a most agreeable experience.” 

As an opening line it is not, perhaps, the most facile one McCoy has ever heard, and he responds accordingly. 

“Damn it, Spock, we’re grown men. This isn’t a teenage girl’s sleepover party.” McCoy breaks Spock’s gentle hold, but doesn’t try to escape; instead, he turns over to face him. “Grownups don’t sleep together platonically, goddammit. I mean, grown humans don’t. Not very often. I mean, I wouldn’t be… content with that limitation over the long-term.”

“Nor would I, Leonard.” Spock slides his arms around McCoy’s waist comfortably. McCoy’s moss-brown eyes widen, so close to Spock’s face he cannot focus on them properly. McCoy still has not demanded he remove himself; from the irascible doctor, that is very nearly as good as an invitation to stay.

McCoy’s mouth is opening and closing without forming words; he appears to have been struck speechless. This is a state of affairs Spock can work with.

He leans closer, sealing his mouth over McCoy’s and kissing him leisurely. McCoy utters another wordless exclamation, but when the doctor does not fight or struggle to pull free, Spock persists. He allows himself a precious moment of exultation when McCoy’s resistance melts and his mouth opens for Spock’s as he acquiesces to the kiss. 

The bait is taken; now he need only set the hook. Perhaps a challenge will suffice. “I will endeavor to remember that you are an injured man,” Spock murmurs against McCoy’s lips, stroking his hands across the strong planes of the doctor’s back. “And I will not tax you excessively until you have recovered.”

McCoy’s eyes darken, his pupils expanding. “Well, I’ve always found you excessively taxing, Spock,” he says, but the words are warm; they sound sweet and thick as honey, and his hand wanders lazily over Spock’s thigh. He presses Spock over onto his back and climbs atop him, leaning in for another kiss.

“No doubt you know best, doctor,” Spock murmurs. McCoy kisses the words off his lips. 

“Damn right I do.” He grinds his hips down against Spock’s, a most satisfactory sensation indeed.

The rest is so easy, Spock could do it in his sleep.


End file.
